Deal With It
by Avide
Summary: Life is always moving, always in action, and Logan wants to move with it. Does he want to do that alone? Wolverine/OFC. COMPLETE.
1. Wrench

"That's just stupid," Logan spat. "It's just a contradiction."

"What if it's not?" insisted the woman behind him. "What if one of the constants in your life was…wrong?"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"I'm sorry. I know what you mean by that. Contradictions don't…exist."

"Like hell they don't." Logan grumbled.

He searched the table against the wall for a wrench. Whenever he needed a specific tool, it wasn't within easy reach. On top of that, tonight, he had to _**deal**_ with another _**person**_, and the fact that she had long, dark red hair.

"Just keep what I'm saying in mind; that's all."

He rolled his eyes, found the wrench, turned around. His wallet chain clinked against his belt.

"Natalya," he said slowly. "I might."

She nodded curtly.

"Now can I get to my car?"

"Please?"

"Please."

She stepped out of his way, grabbed a nearby bottle of motor oil, and held it out to him. He looked up to catch her gaze, surprised that she knew he'd need it. Her eyes stayed away, though, and he wondered, briefly, tiredly, if it was a sign of things to come.

"I, um…start shift at the bar in an hour. I'm gonna go," she informed him. "See you next weekend, maybe?"

Her eyes moved to his, and he nodded before kneeling beside his car.

"Next weekend. I can do that." He said quietly.

She smiled, though he didn't see it, and headed out the open garage door to the race-ready Mustang in the Institute driveway.

"Natalya!" Logan called, his eyes still on his task.

"Yeah?"

"How'd you get your hands on a '71?"

"An old friend has a thing for cars, found a Mach 1, sold it to me. Considering, I couldn't have asked for a better price."

He nodded, impressed, but still didn't turn completely around. Natalya started her car, left the driveway, left the property, and left Logan there to watch her dark red hair flowing with the wind. He wondered if this was punishment, in some sick karma. Case in point: Jean. He remembered Natlaya warning him that she was going to change her hair; grow it, but...he'd never expected this...and it looked so good on her. He ducked underneath his car.

* * *

_Contradictions do not exist. Whenever you think that you are facing a contradiction, check your premises. You will find that one of them is wrong._

- Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged


	2. Touch

"What got you through that?" Natalya inquired, her eyes scanning across the lawn.

"I needed money, needed to satisfy that…that…need. I've got those times where I need to be alone at some drinkin' joint and punch someone out and make money. Not necessarily in that order, but hell. I wanted to survive. I just…this wasn't just some f***in' animal thing. Let's make that clear." Logan said firmly, his jaw stiffening at the thought.

"It was simply survival, then?"

He shrugged."Yeah. I had to prove I was more than what any scientists or mutant schoolteachers or...aggressive drunks believed I was."

"Spite is a driving force."

He chuckled. "You and your books just feed off of each other, huh?"

She turned to meet his gaze, unsure of whether or not she was being mocked or teased.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so," Was the tentative reply.

"What made you ask about my cage-fighting, anyway?"

Natalya glanced again at the brunette in her late teens who was sitting on the grass with her friends, a pair of military dog tags wrapped around her wrist.

"Ah, nothing much."

"You still wanna go with me tomorrow?"

She looked at him and smiled. "Hell yeah! I'd love to see the bike you get the moment you meet it."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Meet it?"

"It's gonna be your baby, after all. You meet what attracts you, then you bond with it. It's the relationship of Logan with sexy machine."

"Whatever you say."

She winked jokingly. "I thought so."

"Do you like workin' at that bar, N?"

She paused for a second, then nodded. "I won't stay there very long, but...it's a good deal for now."

Logan considered that. Maybe she didn't want to stay still, get settled, turn down traveling---life didn't have to be one extreme or another, after all. Things didn't have to be either bare-bones living or mortgaged, tied, and complicated. How Natalya survived was her choice, not her burden.

Logan suddenly had the urge to put his arm around her and hope she'd press those plush lips to his neck. He shook his head, tugged at his biker jacket, pushed the thought away.

* * *

_I intended to survive. Just to spite them. _

- Eugenia Ginzburg, Journey into the Whirlwind


	3. Layers

He knew that he gave off the following vibe: cold, rough, detached, ready to take off for low temperatures. After all, he did wear black leather over dark flannel over white on top of a physique that screams 'aggression and competition'; layers that equal his layers of personality, keeping nearly all other people at least three feet away.

Logan was so damn confused when he thought about how few promises he made in life. He wondered what the hell he was doing with Natalya the bartender. Natalya treated her hair like a canvas, got tattoos like they were collectors' items, wore purple cowboy boots, drank a lot of rum, knew cars, and seemed to be addicted to the kisses he gave her. He almost couldn't stand it; almost wanted to gruffly walk away when her body language said she wanted more. Natalya's warmth hid behind a shield, which Logan respected, and the fact that he'd spent roughly three months in the area, seeing her from time to time and enjoying [most of] it made him worry a little. Why didn't Natalya's laughter annoy him? Why wasn't he sick of the way her hands worshipped the muscles in his arms?

The best sex he's ever had with her was after a loud, stupid argument he had with a racist drunk at a bar, and after he took out his anger at the other patron by punching a large hole in the upholstery of his truck's interior. He grumbled something about needing to get rid of the thirty-year-old "piece o' crap" when Natalya said something about his problem with the drunk: She made it sound like his intentions, his opinion over the other man's words, had been noble and justified, even if he did get "all _Springer_ about it". Logan had no clue what she meant by that last statement, but didn't care, especially when her lips _smoosh_ed against his seconds later, allowing him another kind of release. They drove to her apartment almost half an hour later, where she made him feel like the luckiest A-hole he knew. He felt f***in' wanted---no, _**desired**_---and that was a high in itself.

Afterward, they didn't speak for almost two weeks, before something started harassing Logan in his own mind, telling him he had to at least talk to her again, but even that wouldn't quite be enough. Thoughts like these made him feel like some weak, confused nut-job…like Cyclops when they'd first met. He hated this confusion, and hated that the good times wouldn't last forever, and didn't like feeling so much attraction to the woman. Just as irritating was the fact that Storm kept sending questioning looks when he would say anything about being too busy Saturday night to get to whatever damn repairs the Institute needed. He wasn't the official f***ing handyman, so why should Ororo give a damn? Logan didn't turn down the top-secret, violent missions handed to him by a few different clients, but even then, when Logan said he'd be back in a few days, Storm would sometimes wear this expression that seemed to show the curiosity she had but knew better than to voice.

All this immature crap was driving him nuts.

* * *

_There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person._

- Jane Austen


	4. Please

"So I had a dream last night."

Natalya's head shot up and turned toward Logan. He came to stand beside her car, where she'd been kneeling, examining her muffler.

"A bad one?" she asked, dusting gravel from denim knees.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah; I was in a war. My eye was gauged out."

Natalya's eyes widened and mouth fell open.

"Really? I…That's crazy. Were…either the war or the eye injury metaphorical?"

"I don't think so."

She sighed. "Me neither."

Logan met her eyes again, scratching the back of his neck with one hand, raiding his pocket with the other.

"The war was vicious, bloody…there were rice paddies…" he rubbed his temple and simultaneously removed something from his pocket. "Natalya, I had to talk to Wheels."

"Who?"

"Oh-oh, yeah, you…don't know him. I mean the Professor."

Natalya nodded then and stretched, lifting her arms. Logan caught a glimpse of her taut stomach beneath the hem of her top.

"What kind of shirt is that?" he said. "It's…really loose. And…what're you wearing silk for?"

"It isn't silk. This thing is mostly cotton, but at the back, it hangs low, to show the lace…" Natalya turned around, showing him the black lace part of the soft, light top. "See?"

Her back seemed to be bare beneath that lace---so much smooth skin alluded to---Logan didn't know what to do, besides go to his ever-ready fall-back-plan: fold his arms, look on mysteriously, and briefly raise an eyebrow; Trademark move. She smirked and rolled her eyes at him.

"If only you could get away with dreaming about…other things more often than the violent stuff," she said. "It's the aggressive dreams that wake you up so much, leaving torn sheets and jacked-up adrenaline…"

"That's life for me, N. It can't be changed."

"You're a dark man, Logan."

He nodded modestly.

"I don't mind." She added, stepping close to him, looking up through her eyelashes.

His eyes studied her face, even as it came steadily closer, and he quickly realized that she was practically expecting him to reject her idea. His hands left his pockets and Natalya kissed him.

"You seem to want life to be simple," were her very quiet words, "but life won't let you have your way. I respect that you're so strong, dealing with all this."

Logan listened to her, appreciating the monologue, but letting it really sink in would have to wait, because suddenly, he wasn't so tired anymore, and focus went to giving her mouth plenty of attention. He took in order to give, with languorous kisses, once dragging his teeth gently along her bottom lip. He'd gotten so accustomed to temporarily losing himself in simple, physical things with Natalya. Something about the way these actions secretly made him feel just set off an almost- déjà vu in his hole-riddled memory, as if this wasn't the first time in his life that Logan had started to let a piece of his shield down for a woman. Her fingernails gently scraped over his scalp, helping to ease that train of thought away. When he pressed his teeth against her neck, by her ear, in mock bites, a few small, soft noises left her throat, and a heavy jolt went off in his chest, stabbing somewhere within his ribcage. Natalya took Logan with her when she backed up against the car, her hands firmly gripping his sides. Her now-hot breath seared his waiting mouth before another round of demanding touches. The ends of his fingers pushed into her lower back and she let out a short, low hiss, which he assumed meant that tomorrow, she would have ten small, red marks there---nearly breaking the skin---souvenirs after her enthusiasm. Her kisses were rather forceful, until she pulled away to bite lightly just beneath his jaw, her nails dragging down his back, no gentleness included. Their mouths fused, each of them squeezed and scratched and teased skin they wouldn't open their eyes to see. It was if the moment would be lost if vision joined impulse and high-alert sensitivity. This was the sweetest pain he'd ever had; so worthwhile and difficult to fight. He'd never admit it to anyone besides himself, but Logan was so close to _**sighing**_ in that moment. Natalya had allowed him to stand between her legs, his body very intimately close to hers. He really enjoyed the freckles on her face and arms, the undeniable curves where torso met hips, and that slender, pale neck that so tempted his mouth much of the time.

"Logan…?"

With a very irritated, extended growl, Logan pulled away from Natalya. His hands were unhappy about leaving the woman's long, dark red hair, his legs lost the warmth of denim rubbing against denim. Quickly, though, Logan was a bit embarrassed, masking it with an angry, raised eyebrow and a cracking of the neck. Storm stood just a few feet away, amused, but obviously sorry.

"Professor Xavier's office now, and no, it can't wait, as much as I wish I could stall some more." She informed her fellow X-Man, her voice unrelentingly calm.

"X doesn't need me."

"Logan, I---"

"I'll meet you there. Got it?" he barked, and Storm nodded, unsurprised by his clenched left fist and creased forehead and dark, wild eyes.

When his sometimes-colleague had finally begun her walk back to the Professor's office at the other end of the building, Logan licked his lips, distracted, and met Natalya's eyes again. She was tracing his muscled back with her eyes. She always managed to listen to an intrusive "authority" figure in any situation, while simultaneously allowing herself thoughts about what she wanted most in that moment, and for Logan, there was no guessing as to what she currently wanted most.

"I was never the type to do something like that in full view of a whole school." Natalya said, biting her kiss-reddened lip.

"You can't say that anymore," Logan replied, smirking. "We can finish this later."

"I'll be home. Just knock."

He considered blowing off the meeting in Professor Xavier's office that was most likely a briefing on a new X-Men assignment, but he didn't take the idea very seriously.

"F**k," Natalya breathed. "You have sly eyes. Don't ever look at me again. I'll be even more corrupted."

He full-on grinned at that. "I'll see you tonight; rest up for it."

She cocked a challenging eyebrow in return. "Feel lucky that you have that healing factor."

He growled again, this time in an entirely different tone, and pulled her flush against his solid frame, his mouth a rough promise.

"Now get lost." He said, pulling away, before taking his renewed swagger up the path, toward the Institute.

* * *

_"Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you understand."_

- A Room With a View by E.M. Forster


	5. Colors

"_**What **_the _**hell**_?" Logan said, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline.

Natalya laughed; the sound was low and raspy.

"He's _**sobbing**_ while he _**eats**_ him!"

"It's a cartoon," Natalya replied. "I love the episode where Lisa and Ralph are Nancy and Sid. It's---"

"Who're they?"

"Lisa is the girl with the pointy hair---"

"And Nancy is…?"

"Why do you only want to know who the girls are?"

"Just answer me." Logan responded, rolling his eyes.

"She was a needy, drug-addicted groupie and the reason why the Sex Pistols' bassist left the band. Sid eventually was imprisoned for allegedly killing Nancy."

"At least you're honest."

Natalya shrugged. "I have no reason not to be. Sid and Nancy binged on drugs together, and in this one St. Valentine's Day episode of 'The Simpsons', you've got Lisa and Ralph overdoing it on chocolate! They heat up hot chocolate mix in a spoon with a lighter just like---"

"Yeah," Logan interrupted gruffly, waving a hand. "I got it."

"You know, some of the kids at the Institute look like they might've gotten into things like that just to escape being so different." Natalya said, flipping channels on her TV.

Logan's eyes cut to hers like a knife through cotton.

"You think so?"

"Yes, I do. I think they look like it. I'm not assuming there are any present or past druggies in the school…just saying maybe."

"Storm and the Professor pay attention to what the kids have on them when they're brought in, and the Professor's…well…himself…so I reckon he'd know if a kid was on something just from watchin' 'em."

"I believe you. He sounds like one of the greats," Natalya replied, turning her attention to the TV. "like he's profound and aware, with seemingly endless compassion. I imagine he's one of those necessary people to balance out the antics from the rest of us."

Logan snorted. It made Natalya smile.

"For some of us, screwing up is the standard. For others, it's helping people. I told you about Magnet Face, and well, his thing is---" Logan rubbed his forehead, pausing. "was destruction and chaos. What a nut bag. He didn't brainwash people like Adolf Hitler did, but he sure as hell took a page from the book of psychotics by ranting on and on with propaganda, know what I mean?"

Her full attention on him, Natalya nodded, eyes wide.

"I've always seen the Professor as one of the last hopes we have, and there are folks like him who make you believe things like that, so when they die, there's this huge…loss…"

"Mother Theresa, Dr. King, and people like that, you mean?"

Logan cleared his throat. "Sort of."

"They have a few significant things in common with the Professor, from the way you've made it sound."

"Yeah, I guess so. We each have our…our thing. It's nature."

"So everyone is built with that drive toward good or evil?"

He shrugged at her. "I don't see those as the only options. Between black and white, there are a lot o' colors. Remember the color wheel?"

Natalya clapped her hands together. "Black and white aren't technically colors! I didn't forget that, but…" her face fell a little. "You're right."

A cocky grin slowly grew on Logan's face. "What's this, bar maid? I'm right?"

She made a comically sour face in his direction. "Dick."

"Who's this Dick guy you keep mentioning?"

Natalya scoffed. "You're impossible."

"It's good for your health, kid."

She wrinkled her freckled nose. "Kid; I think being a kid left my nature ages ago."

Logan's forehead smoothed itself, the effect melting down the rest of his face until a level of solemnity had claimed it all. Not noticing, Natalya regarding the television again, her fingers tapping the empty beer bottle at her side. With his thoughts full of unexplained images and current deadlines and memories of the Professor's most helpful moments, Logan swallowed hard. He worked his hand around the couch cushions and the blanket covering them, to get just beneath the hem of Natalya's T-shirt, sliding back and forth along her hip.

"I'm a dick and you think too much. Nature made us that way." He rumbled quietly.

"Maybe so, but I wonder how much of our personalities is genetic, and how much is…other things."

"Are you comparing that to a person's environment?"

"That's exactly what I mean. It's a cycle of thoughts I have."

"Do you really have time for thoughts when you're watching your favorite show like some devoted teenager?"

Her eyes glittered then. "Just because cartoons probably didn't _**exist**_ when _**you**_ were a teenager, that doesn't---"

He growled and pinned her to the couch within seconds, jokingly glaring down at her, teeth bared. She laughed for nearly thirty seconds, tracing his face with her fingers all the while.

"Who are you to say I'm that old?" he retorted.

"Things you say give it away sometimes."

"You're lying." He said, biting back any chances of sharing how the thought of near-immortality made him feel.

Natalya grinned. "No! It isn't much, though; certainly not enough to give me a year or time period, so chill out."

"So if I'm an ancient relic, what does that say about you?" Logan asked, ignoring her wandering hands as they moved beneath his flannel shirt (moments like this sometimes made him think of Janet, but who the _**hell**_ was _**Janet**_?).

She chuckled. "You look like you're about forty. You're sexy, and the mysteries about you are part of what draws me in, sugar, so you're safe here."

"I'm what?"

"You're ancient?"

He growled a second time. "Try again."

"You're the sexiest man I've ever seen?"

"That's much better."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Let me up, fool. Your delicious self is crushing me into couch springs, and that doesn't feel very good."

"You don't mind."

"Not much, but enough. They dig into my upper back, and those muscles are tense a lot as it is."

Logan relented, leaving the couch to get his sixth beer of the night. Natalya sat up and fixed her hair. He hated the thought that he'd been alive for decades upon decades, with very few reliable memories. It made him nauseous if he thought about it too much. When she began lightly massaging the muscles between her inked shoulders, Logan watched her facial expressions, tilting his head when she seemed to make a little progress. That mouth would open and those eyes would close, relaxation clear in her neck and shoulders.

"Are you gonna watch me all night?" she inquired, her eyes still not focusing on him.

"Nature makes anger and happiness and a lot of other crap like that, but…it makes curiosity too."

"Sadness, anger, happiness, loneliness, naivety…"

"Yeah, and I'm human, so I'm not sorry for being what human is: full of that stuff."

"Logan," she turned her whole body to face him now, her hands still at her sides. "You're right, you know you're right. I---"

"You get it, N?" he said, his eyes serious. "I'm human and I'm not making my first apology in years be about what I am."

"Nature makes caution, too, Logan. I really do get it. I've never had a problem with how you like to handle things between us, because I know I'll see you again, and things need to be on your terms most of the time. I get that. You're distrustful and restless and cautious and that's reality; that's nature-made."

Logan let out the long exhale he didn't know he'd been holding.

"What else is there to get…" he muttered to himself.

Natalya heard him, muttering, "Yeah."

"I have to leave town for a job soon." He told her.

"How soon is soon?"

"I leave on Monday, and I might get back in a month."

Something flickered in Natalya's face, but she made it simmer. "Call me if you get bored." She replied.

The corner of his mouth lifted. "I like that about you."

"You like what?" she prodded, her gaze on her tattooed wrist.

"Who cares?" he said quietly, gruffly, moving close beside her. "It's the mystery that's fun, right?"

She looked up, and he took advantage, seizing her bottom lip (Natalya's, not Janet's) between his, beginning a moment that wouldn't end for an hour and a half. Logan didn't sleep with ghosts.

* * *

_"__Naw it ain't, it's nature, 'cause nature makes caution. It's de strongest thing dat God ever made, now. Fact is it's de onliest thing God ever made. He made nature and nature made everything else."_

- Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston


	6. Nightmares

"_Pocomaxa_," whispered a female voice, as Logan blinked his eyes. "Logan, wake up."

He groaned and slid his hand down his face.

"You asked me to do this, _caxap_," Natalya said softly. "Don't complain."

"You could be calling me anything."

She chuckled. "That's the beauty in your only speaking _**Canadian**_."

He stared back at her through his half-lidded eyes, not ready to consider rolling them as a response.

"Are you fluent in Russian?" he asked.

"I used to be."

Logan sat up slowly, pure regret coursing through him for a matter of seconds as he wished that it wasn't necessary to be up before eleven a.m. today. Sleep had been rocky for him, waking up twice, and with a long, difficult time losing consciousness again each time. Dreams had been the problem; dreams that involved guns and shouting and dust and mud and a deep, unsettling feeling that something about him had changed negatively. He felt heaviness around his eyes, a dull ache in his sinuses. Images like those brought him stress, and stress…it can tear a person apart. That thought alone made Logan shake his head in frustration.

"Thanks," he mumbled, almost too quietly, "Thank you."

He hated the thought of ever having to go back and retrace every step he'd ever made, what with the indescribable amount of uncertainty---well, he assumed it was indescribable, but that's because he hadn't realized just how much of his own life was questionable and worrisome until years after Edgar Allen Poe had died. Poe was such a master of despair and tension and angst, but here the one and only Wolverine was, alone, with worn jeans, bad nightmares, warm beer, and a stolen motorcycle, just trying to figure out what he could. It f***ing sucked. Here he was, a long-ago-grown man, and yet a…a pebble in the storm…a broken, tossed-away toy…a loner…a little-known, much-needed man…a part-human, mostly-feared creature…who didn't know which memories were real and which ones weren't. It was enough to make a lesser man cry (not just have a tear or two leak out, but _**really cry**_).

"Let me know if I can do anything for you before I leave." Natalya said as she stood and crossed the room.

"Leave? You work?"

"Sort of; not for the bar, but helping a friend with her Saturn: changing oil, and…whatever else."

He nodded, his head down, and she didn't see it. She left the room and continued around her apartment, getting ready to leave. Logan now had space to find his denim, button-up shirt to put on over the beater he still wore from last night, mentally griping all the while about the early hour. He wasn't some teacher at the Institute, where getting up at this time was standard; this just pissed him off. The thought soon brought him to Jean, Marvel Girl, the redheaded mind-reader he'd had a thing for---and left another team to join the X-Men for--- and it felt like that had been ages ago, when it had been less than ten years ago. Seeing Natalya with long, dark red hair really threw him the hell off because of it. It also was strange walking past certain parts of the Institute that Jean had frequented. Those memories were tough ones for him, since…since…Logan couldn't seem to have just one tragic incident in a year or two---it seemed like there might be some cosmic law that he had to experience rough stuff in three-incident strings, which, once again, really sucked. Knowing this upset Logan when he thought about it too much, but he detested self-pity, and didn't allow himself to dwell on big losses too much (enough, he felt, but not too much), and in the process, had to fight related subjects from getting to his consciousness.

_Why not save it for my nightmares?_ He thought darkly.

* * *

It should occur to most people that for some, the weapon they use to hurt others is also their weak point, their Achilles Heel, the gap in their defense. Now, saying it should is an opinion made out of surprise and a spoonful of naiveté, seeing as there were countless people judging Logan by his gruff facial expressions and of course, the claws, and he held tightly to his persona as the aggressive, hardened mutant with no emotional or legal ropes to tie him to one spot day-by-day.

Logan didn't see himself as special in any way, but he knew he could hold his own better than most of the people he'd met in his lifetime. The problem with his extraordinary strength and healing ability and anger issues was that in these ways, he had rivals…or at least one, as far as he could remember, and that rival was the incredibly violent Sabertooth. According to Professor X, Sabertooth's father had severely abused him when he was a child because of his "extra" abilities, including being chained in the basement regularly (if not all the time). This had to have been a big part of the man's descent into unapologetically ferocious behavior, but it couldn't---in Logan's opinion---explain everything. Sabertooth loved to hate the X-Men, Logan included, and would make juvenile attempts at provocation whenever the two saw one another.

Sabertooth, whose other name was Victor Creed (a name that conjures images in itself), had the same animalistic aggression Logan possessed when his anger was really pushed. They also shared the conflict of mixed emotions when they contemplated their pasts, but Logan despised acknowledging this to himself, because it just…it just made him feel nauseous. He wanted nothing to do with the bloodthirsty, blond hairball he considered Sabertooth to be. Sabertooth didn't know what it was like to be sane. He didn't hear whispers of promotion to field commander. With that in mind, Logan brushed his teeth and put on his combat boots. All this thinking was taking up time.

* * *

"Here it is, here it is at last, the encounter with reality...All is lost now!"

- Notes From the Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky


	7. Stories

"Have you ever thought that…that more people could get away from tied-down living, never leaving that one town, that house, that job…and that more people should?"

Logan looked up at Natalya and nodded. She hadn't spoken to him in over five minutes, and he hadn't enjoyed a meal with a woman more. He should answer that question, or else she might let her long, dark red hair down and distract him.

"I got thinking about it," Natalya said, "'Cause I'm reading Into Thin Air, and in it, one of the characters says, 'Most of the people who live in this rugged country seem to have no desire to be severed from the modern world or the untidy flow of human progress'. It got me thinking about how you don't have anything tying you down, Logan. You do the nomadic thing, and you don't sit still when you have questions you want answered. There are people who probably should try at least relocating, if not doin' what you do."

Logan nodded again. "I like the way things are."

"It isn't for everybody, of course, but…I mean, it shouldn't be just ruled out, as if it isn't an option when you don't have kids or a stay-in-town job you love or…a contract or something."

"Or something," was Logan's reply, chuckling softly, and he went back to his meal.

"I want to do something else with myself," Natalya informed him, spearing some chicken with her fork. "I'm starting to think a lot about leaving town; having a new adventure."

Logan's eyes darted up to hers, making him pause halfway to a mouthful of food. He raised an eyebrow and continued eating.

"I've heard that nothing is funnier than unhappiness, but I don't see how it could apply every time, like to my consistent restlessness."

Logan nodded. His eyes were on his meal. Natalya went back to eating, leaving him with much-desired space to enjoy the quiet.

"I have lots of scars. There are about eight on my hands and wrists alone, but…they all came from the same source. I want more stories, not just the ones I wear."

"What 'bout your tattoos, is it the same for them?" Logan asked, looking up at her again.

Natalya tilted her head. "Some I just got because I liked them, but…most of them have some meaning."

"You do have your impulses." He said.

She smirked. "Indeed."

"If you do leave the area, you'll have to be able to do at least a few things for a living. Bein' on the road is tough, and I know you aren't high maintenance or anything, but…"

Natalya nodded. "I would have to have a plan, some ideas, and money."

"Don't weigh yourself down too much."

"True. I'm not thinking of taking off during the next week, mind you, but…this is something I keep thinking about."

Logan realized, just then, that he had cleared his plate of food. For whatever reason, he was really curious about where Natalya's thoughts would lead her.

She continued with, "I'm one town over from where I was raised. I have my mother's last name. None of that means I have to stay in place, though. I don't have to have a door mat, a mortgage, or over a decade of history in one location. I had that with my childhood, and I appreciate it, but…I don't need that anymore."

"Are you running from something?" Logan inquired before downing the rest of his beer.

"I don't think so. It feels like restlessness. Just…knowing that there's much more to the world, the country, the state…I don't want to spend my entire life in one area. I knew you'd understand, even if…if there might be more than one reason for your…lone wolf thing."

Logan chuckled. "I have a lone wolf thing?"

Natalya smiled in return. It made Logan's mind go to the fact that all mutants have some level of experience with rejection and isolation. All mutants who don't hate their powers know the definition of an individual. Logan had trouble grasping the phrase Natalya had applied to his behavior, since all he knew was discomfort with sharing himself, a desire for quiet, an addiction to motorcycles and violence, and a deep void in the spot where most people had their metaphorical hearts. Logan trusted very few people, and the majority of that group, he only trusted to have his back as fellow X-Men. It seemed the only person Logan fully respected and relied on (for answers, for a remotely guardian-like image, for a home to come back to whenever he was in town) was Professor Xavier.

"Some people just can't sit still," Logan said finally, after twenty minutes of silent thought. Natalya had washed the dishes and begun hunting through her refrigerator for what she called, "two cans of expired jelly stuff". Logan looked over at her long, dark red hair and shapely backside in time to hear her say, "I know they're in here!" He waited until she had found the two jars and closed the fridge before crossing the room, moving behind her, and sliding his hands up her sides, beneath a layer of cotton.

"Touching?" Natalya asked softly.

"Of course." He replied, moving his fingers gently along her warm skin.

"Tomorrow's Monday, right?" she inquired.

Logan set his mouth in a straight line, mumbling, "Yeah" before moving his hands up to her rib cage.

"Are you gonna be here tonight?"

He kissed the curve of Natalya's neck a few times, wishing the talking would stop. He grazed his teeth beneath her ear.

"Yeah," he said quietly in his rumbling voice, "I'll be here."

* * *

The next morning, Natalya woke up to sunlight peaking into her room in bars between the window frames and the dark brown drapes. She followed the way the light lapped over her matching comforter and her tattooed arm and the black leather square she used in place of a chair at her desk. That's when she noticed the change. A denim jacket was draped over the seat, and Natalya had no doubt that it smelled like cigars and forest. She could not be happier that the jacket had been left behind.

* * *

_"I have inherited her name, but I don't want to inherit her place by the window."_

- The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

_"Nothing is funnier than unhappiness."_

- Endgame by Samuel Beckett


	8. News

A warm hand was on his shoulder.

"Просыпаться! Это просто кошмар!"

He growled his irritation until fully awakening, his eyes glazed from sleep, confused by the white surroundings. Something dark green blocked his view.

"What do you want?" he said gruffly. "Why are you touching me?"

"Я пытался делать правильные вещи."

Logan squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, this time taking in the dark-haired woman in a close-fitting parka and gloves. He could feel sweat trickling down his lower back, trail after trail, beneath his layers of winter clothes. The woman continued to stand over him, big, striking brown eyes staring from just underneath a black knit cap and fur-lined hood.

"Do you like to watch people sleep?" he inquired, still annoyed.

She set her mouth in a straight line for a moment, then sighed and gestured for him to stand up, saying, "Плохой сон. Вы были расстроены. У меня нет справочника для этой ситуации; не принимайте это на мне."

"What're you going on about?" Logan grumbled as he pushed himself to his feet.

Somehow he felt so weary, even though he had just slept for at least four hours. The woman brushed a snowflake from her pale cheek and then started the most bizarre game of Charades that Logan had ever seen. After a moment, in which the stranger scowled at him, he realized that, while asleep just now, he must have been having one of his deeply vivid nightmares and frightened her. He didn't know how to ask if he'd been lying there all night, if this woman had any clue. Last night had involved a little too much of his informant's homemade vodka. The informant had said that evidence led them to believe there was a "possible connection to the famous Romanov family" really had his mind spinning. Sometimes his mind just felt like it was too full of deep, upsetting thoughts, and booze couldn't get him drunk to make it go away, but it helped him sleep, and that was good enough for now.

He then remembered something. It was like a firecracker going off in his skull. He inhaled so sharply that it brought on a small coughing fit. His informant had given him other news as well...the life-changing kind.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x xxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxx

* * *

Sometime the day before, Logan had been in the home of an inconspicuous hacker who went by the name L.J., and inconspicuous may not even have been the correct term, judging by the degree to which L.J. kept himself off the radar. Logan noticed how very, very modest the apartment was. Almost every wall was bare.

L.J. sat at his computer, an open jar of peanut butter within reach on the kitchen counter, a spoon inside it.

"A year ago," L.J. said, "there was a crime in Washington D.C. that had a very small amount of DNA evidence. It proved to have a little of _**your **_DNA in it."

Logan felt the bottom of his stomach drop quickly, stilling his anxious breath.

"W-what does that mean for me then?"

"You are the biological father of that culprit. That's all I know about them, though, because they were never caught, let alone identified. I found nothing of that man in the American or Canadian arrest records."

Both men swallowed hard. When L.J. offered up his bottle of homemade liquor, Logan didn't refuse.

Less than an hour later, Logan barely registered the fact that he was moving from L.J.'s apartment to his borrowed car. He was too focused on this news that he, the loner with mutant genes and a penchant for violence, had a son. He'd never been the type to use a woman as a sex object, but also had never desired something _**really **_committed or the things that often come with that, like a marriage license or parenthood. Logan wanted to stay a nomad, and besides, he'd had enough heartbreak for more than a few people. Also, why had this mystery son been pulling illegal crap? Or…was this just one of Logan's many genetic gifts to offspring? Brushing a light dusting of snow off of the car gave him a safe minute to wonder what his biological kid looked like and if they'd inherited his healing factor. The young criminal shouldn't be suddenly hit with "Here's your bio-dad" news. There were a few big reasons why, and Logan didn't want to tread on them.

Now that he knew someone who had evidence in their possession that could help him, Logan wanted more research done. He now was very curious as to who the biological mother was and what his son's age and name were. Unlocking the car door, he took a moment to sigh heavily. The wind chill, the snow, and the very gray sky were all adding to his mood right now. This was one of those times when he found himself admitting (albeit mentally) that a cell phone had its useful moments. He thought of calling Professor X, and maybe Natalya after that. Before he could use a pay phone, though, something quite embarrassing happened. He passed out. Right there on the sidewalk.

* * *

"Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

- Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird


	9. Call

"I know, but just…gimme a break, Natalya."

His words rumbled from his chest to the phone's receiver. He heard a half-sigh, half-chuckle on the other end of the phone line.

"Это пугает меня немного, когда я нахожусь скучаю по тебе."

Logan kept his gaze downcast as he walked, duffle bag in hand, a cell phone near his ear, listening. He was what he considered to be fully recovered from his embarrassment two days prior. After scaring the bundled-up Russian woman, getting into his motel room and forcing himself through his pre-sleep routine, Logan had decided that taking another day before the flight home was definitely a good idea.

"Кое-что о тонус другое. Я очень привязан к вам, хотя, и я вам доверяю.."

"What's that last part?" Logan asked, chuckling lowly.

"Um…" he could hear the smile in her voice. "Ты ублюдок сексуальных я когда-либо видел. Я рад видеть вас снова."

"Is that so?"

"That's enough to hold you over," Natalya said. "Was the trip very useful?"

"Yeah, you could say that." Logan swallowed. "I got a lot out of it."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't bother with me. I didn't run into any relatives of yours out here."

"Oh ha, yes, I'm sure. Thank you. You're so funny."

He could vividly imagine Natalya rolling her eyes during her previous statement.

"I tried some homemade vodka."

She paused. "You're kidding."

"I've never had anything like it."

"Did you like the stuff?"

Logan approached the luggage and shoe scanner.

"Have to take my damn boots off." He mumbled.

"You know why." Natalya quietly replied.

"Couldn't forget."

* * *

Even after the boots were back in place, Logan could just hear that Natalya was wordlessly trying to think of how to ask something.

After a beat, she said, "Did you learn anything big?"

Logan felt the muscles in his face loosen up. "Well…yeah. I…There have been women in the past."

"You're a big boy; it's allowed."

Reassured, Logan continued. "One of them got pregnant and never told me."

The other end of the phone line was silent again. This was, of course, a bomb to drop.

"You have been alive for a long time," Natalya finally responded, carefully choosing her words. "It's not shocking that you are or may be a dad."

"It was my kid, for sure, because there was a little DNA evidence."

"Oh **_wow_**, yeah?"

"Yeah, and it was left at a crime scene, following in my-" Logan blinked. "Footsteps."

"There's no need to think that way," Natalya replied. "What do you want to do with this information?"

Logan cleared his throat. "Nothing. I don't want to reach out or anything...scare the twenty-something-year-old kid and just do useless damage."

"I get that."

" It's not like I'd be a good father at this point. I never wanted that job, anyway…to be honest."

"I've known," Natalya answered. "That's cool with me. I'm afraid of being a mom and, hell, pregnancy and childbirth sound like things I'd never mind missing out on."

That made Logan's shoulders relax.

"I'll pick you up at the airport or hang out with you once you're home; whatever you want. I could even drop you off at the mansion and leave you be for a week."

'_This woman…'_ Logan thought.

"I'll let you know." He told her.

He remembered feeling a little relieved that at one point, he'd had a decent place to live while [technically] working for the Romanov family. If he'd been the type to name-drop, he easily could slam someone else's "American Idol" finalist run-in or claim that "I drank with Marilyn Manson's drummer" because he had worked as a member of security for a _**Russian Czar**_, man, and that was one side to his Russian experience. The other side was…the 'F' word news. Logan was no stranger to the word f*%k, but _**father?**_

He wanted a beer.

* * *

_"The good man is the man who, no matter how morally unworthy he has been, is moving to become better."_

_- John Dewey_


	10. Life

"So you're okay with existing the way you are right now?" Natalya was asking.

Logan rubbed his forehead with the hand that wasn't curled around a beer.

"You've been…different for weeks. Do you really want to keep this up?"

"Natty…" he said, his voice low.

"I know you were handed a piece of really big news, but-"

"You've gotta leave me be, all right? I need this."

"Of course learning that changed your life," Natalya continued, quieter this time. "But you decided to not try to contact your biological son, and I just want you to be back to normal now. It's been three weeks."

Logan set his jaw.

"I mean well, here. I'm sorry I'm being so obnoxious. This just doesn't come across as, uh, your normal lone-wolf thing."

"I don't need to explain myself, Nat."

"Make sure you sleep well and all that s%$t."

"I do. I'm fine." Logan replied, his eyes on the wall opposite them. He felt very lucky that no one seemed to be on the first floor of the mansion known as the Institute right now, and especially not near this room.

"I just want to have your back, Logan, and…it's hard to watch you go through life off-kilter like this. You're out of orbit."

"Relax, kid. I'm doin' fine," he responded, turning to face Natalya. "Don't you work tomorrow?"

She sighed, her hand with the star tattoo now drumming on the table. "I'm pissing you off, aren't I?"

Logan's eyebrow lifted in a striking fashion, chugging part of his beer.

"There are answers you want to find about your past, and it would help if-"

"Nat."

That's where an uncomfortable pause kicked in. Logan looked down at the dregs of his beer, wishing he'd left more.

"All right, I'm out." Natalya responded, standing from her chair with decidedly less grace than she'd used earlier.

Their gazes met briefly, wherein they each tried to convey something, refusing to receive. She quickly found herself staring at the side of his head for a moment before leaving the room. Logan followed, then, his face once again expressionless.

Xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

* * *

"What's up?"

Long, dark red hair, tall black boots, fitted jeans, and Logan knew from a glimpse that Natalya had come back for the first time in eleven days.

"You said on the phone that you were busy watchin' that guy." He grumbled in his version of a joke.

Natalya chuckled. "I like to look at Jacoby Shaddix, but he's got nothin' on you. What's going on with the bike?"

Logan didn't pull his focus from the vehicle beside him. "There are issues with the fuel sensor and the frame sliders."

"I'll come back later, then."

His mind flashed to Russia and everything he'd thought about as he downed a hacker's homemade vodka. Grown-up conversations with women were so difficult to have when you didn't have answers to a lot of the typical questions. With this woman, though…

"No," he steadfastly replied. "I'll get up in a second. I have stuff to pick up tomorrow to fix this. This is gonna be an all-day job."

"All right, since you sound sure. Um, are you hungry? We could go to Blazer for burgers…?"

Logan wiped as much grease and dirt onto the nearby towel as he could. "Honestly, darlin', I don't wanna deal with that place tonight."

"That's cool; I'll think of something else. I just have to remember that there's still construction at the other end of Keeler."

"People are still workin' on that street?"

He stood and approached her, his mouth at the corner of hers. She got to see his Civil War-style mutton chop sideburns up-close again.

"Good."

She allowed herself a little closed-lipped smile, and with that, he felt certain that she knew exactly what he meant. He'd had so many questions, so much contemplation about where he could fit in with "civilized" society, with the X-Men, with Professor X himself, with mortality and the passing of the seasons, and yet he knew there'd be more uncertainty to come, and made it clear to this lovely-looking bar maid, who now seemed to have a solid grasp of what that meant and still was here! Last week had been the only exception to not being pushy, just cool about Logan's brooding and traveling and the fact that he'd never be a good communicator.

"I agree." She muttered.

His hands seized her hips like a vice. That was all the green-light she needed to put hers in Logan's hair, claiming his bottom lip, wanting to sink inside the dark, very reluctantly [and secretly] hopeful, complicated force of nature that was Logan-a troubled soul made for old gothic literature.

"This first," he said roughly. "Food later," Her hands drifted to his belt buckle. "We'll go much later."

* * *

_You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough._

- Frank Crane


	11. Vernal

There's one thing that Logan has found really interesting for the last two weeks. Within days of this Gambit kid's arrival at the Institute, it was clear to a number of the X-Men that he had some sort of nonsexual connection with Storm, and although Logan very much liked having everyone keep their secrets, Gambit's surprise and curiosity about Storm's current lifestyle made Logan wonder if she had a past as a troublemaker. Red Eyes' reaction to learning that his former acquaintance/friend/whatever had a _**teaching**_ job really proved that Logan knew little about the woman beyond her talents and core character. .

After tagging along for a low-key X-Men mission in which he played the role of pilot, Gambit checked out the stunning vision in black, silver and mocha, saying, "Now it makes sense, _mon amie_; _**of course **_you do this."

The Gambit kid had a lot of energy and the kind of charm that would make Logan nauseous if he weren't so good at leaving the room two words into the Cajun twenty-something's first sentence. Gambit was now on good terms with a number of girls and women at the mansion-to varying but _**appropriate**_ degrees, mind you-and with Logan personally, he got along fairly well, since he sometimes had interesting little memories from his own travels. During each of those very brief encounters, Logan's mind got around to his own spurts of drifting, and the fact that it had been roughly six months since he'd returned to the Institute. That's an unsettling thought for the grizzled mutant with weird hair; The simple fact that there've been some significant changes in his life this year is no excuse. He has come to terms with his mutation and similarities to the permanently-insatiable murderer known as Sabertooth, the fact that he can trust Natalya to sleep beside him, the Professor's death, and the tragic case of his inability to ever completely decipher real memories from false ones…Though he needs to be totally honest with himself and say that this is the most he'll probably ever accept the memory thing. It's always going to make him (_**say it**_!) sad and frustrated, but that should just come in spurts-you know, when it's triggered-and Natalya's kind of careful about that, because it's one of those difficult things to handle properly.

Anyway, it was now time to move on, and something had started up that very familiar restless feeling, and instead of throwing some belongings into a bag and taking off on the late Cyclops' motorcycle, he found himself leaning against Natalya's fridge, his truck in her driveway, a cold beer in hand. He heard a chuckle.

"Drinking already? What time is it?"

It had been days since he had felt this relaxed. He angled his body, ready to receive. "It's four-somethin'."

Natalya's fingers curled around his belt and he met her gaze. Her eyes were f***ing shining.

"What's goin' on?" he asked.

She dragged her teeth over a spot on his neck.

"Just thinking a lot." she said, quickly running her hands down the prominent muscles in his arms. "When you leave again…" He didn't like where this was going. "Please consider taking me with you."

Then she kissed his mouth firmly, and he figured that meant she might not want a verbal response, so he rubbed her back, kissed her temple, hoped she had an idea of what he was thinking. Being the kind of male he is, the statement seemed like it had come from nowhere, and listening to it was a little uncomfortable, but he had to keep it in mind. What would it be like to have her around when he was on the road? Right now, anyway, Natalya was safe, warm, curvy, reliable, and her skin was reading material. Logan traced the wistful Rafael cherub high on Natalya's arm, its limbs folded and face tilted upward.

This day was turning into one long epiphany. Tonight, he'd have to take Storm aside for a minute, go over a couple of things.

Natalya kissed the base of his throat.

"Would you give two weeks' notice to the bar?" Logan asked in that gravelly voice.

Her mouth fell open, eyes widened. "Я не думаю, что вы действительно считаю." She swallowed. "Yeah?"

He smirked down at her. "Yeah."

Her hands slid to his hips, holding just a little tighter, and she winked. "I'm in."

* * *

_Jimmy: "Nucky, all I want is an opportunity."_

_Nucky: "This is America, kid. Who the fuck is stopping you?"_

- "Boardwalk Empire"

This story is one I'm a little proud of. It's another reason why GoingVintage can suck it.


End file.
